


The Bells of Winter

by QueenSabriel



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Old Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Crossover, F/F, F/M, M/M, Mashup
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 14:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3653763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenSabriel/pseuds/QueenSabriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For many generations the Abhorsens of Winterfell have stood between the Seven Kingdoms and the scattered Dead which arise near the Wall. But just as Lord Terciel is summoned south to serve as the Hand of the king, news begins to trickle in that something more than the Dead have been spotted. In King's Landing, Free Magic is becoming suspiciously more prevalent, and the Prince Rogirrek seems to be somehow at the center of it. Meanwhile to the east the Lady Clariel, last of the Targaryens, is becoming more and more restless with her exile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lirael

**Author's Note:**

> Content note: If you read/watched ASoIaF/GoT, nothing in this story will be as graphic. Non-con is referenced but doesn't happen "on screen."

The morning dawned clear and cold when Lirael went with her sister, their father, and seventeen others to see a man beheaded. She was sixteen, and Lord Terciel had decided it was well past time his younger daughter saw the king's justice served.   Septa Greenwood had made her disapproval known, but even she knew there was no real arguing with the Lord Abhorsen when it came to his daughters.  

Lirael had no complaints. She rode proudly next to her sister, who at eighteen was much taller and looked considerably more like their father (in Lirael's opinion.) Lirael took after her mother in some ways, or so she was told; she barely remembered Arielle, who went to Castle Black when Lirael was just five years old, and then - But Lirael stopped at that. She did not need to make herself cry, not today.   

The condemned man had been taken at a nearby holdfast. When Terciel told them that he was accused of practicing Free Magic, Lirael had imagined him a bent and withered figure, with black robes, a bandolier of bells across his chest and the reek of Free Magic clinging to him. Instead the person they found waiting with the guards was a frightened man of thirty or so, malnourished and trembling.   

The black clothing was there, but it was the raiment of the Night's Watch, not a sorcerer.  

The group dismounted, gathering in a loose group near the stump of ironwood that served as executioner's block. Lirael stood next to her sister, nervous excitement twisting in her gut.   

"Don't look away," Sabriel whispered to her. "Father will know if you do."  

Terciel faced the man. His face was set in a hard, stern expression, not the face of Father at all, but rather the Lord of Winterfell. "You have been accused of not only abandoning your post at the Wall and breaking your oath, but also of practicing Free Magic," he said to the man. "How do you plead?"  

"My lord," the man wheezed. He made a motion as though to grab the hem of Terciel's robes, but the guards held him back. "I was frightened, and desperate, and weak..."  

"Yes you were," Terciel agreed. "There are reasons Free Magic is forbidden. And as a brother of the Night's Watch you swore to not only protect this kingdom but to obey its laws, and to be always just and true. What drove you to break that oath?"  

"I was frightened," the man whispered. "They were coming."  

Lirael shivered as a sudden chill ran down her spine. There was something beyond fear in the man's eyes, there was an emptiness, an utter surrender.  

"Who were coming?" Terciel asked. "The Dead?"  

The man shook his head, staring at the grass. "Not the Dead, lord," he whispered. "Those who make them. The Others."  

Lirael glanced up at her sister again. Sabriel was frowning, and gave a small shrug when she met Lirael's gaze. Every so often there came news from the area nearest the Wall that corpses were not staying dead, that a few had risen and attacked people. It did not happen so often, not anymore, just once every decade or so. That was why the lord or lady of House Abhorsen alone among all the kingdom s was allowed to wield the seven bells of a necromancer; they were the ones who kept the Dead down.   

Even so, no one knew for sure anymore what caused the Dead to rise there. The Night's Watch and all the northern houses made sure there were no necromancers - some said they still roamed free to the East, but in Westeros they were well controlled. If Septa Greenwood's stories were true, however, human sorcerers weren’t the only ones capable of raising the dead. According to her, the race of powerful Free Magic beings known only as 'The Others' still existed beyond the wall, and liked to remind everyone that they still roamed free.   

But the Others had not been seen in many lifetimes, if they ever really existed.  

Terciel was speaking again, saying something Lirael could not quite catch over the rising wind. Then his master at arms was bringing forth his great sword, and Terciel traded his gloves for the weapon. The blade shone bright even in the wan grey light of the day, its tempered Valyrian steel shining with Charter marks.  

"In the name of King Robert," Terciel intoned, lifting the blade. "First of his name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm and Warden of the Great Charter - by the word of Terciel of House Abhorsen, Lord of Winterfell and Gatekeeper of the Dead, I do sentence you to die."  

The sword came down. As it cleaved clean through the man's neck, Lirael felt a sudden rush of cold, an emptiness where a life had burned moments before. She knew that it was the man's death she felt, and that Sabriel and their father felt it as well. The man's head rolled some ways, and Jory Cassel touched his Charter mark briefly before bending to retrieve it.   

Lirael felt her stomach twist unpleasantly, though she didn't know if it was from the death or the blood now soaking into the grass, or the sight of the head.   

Sabriel put her hand on Lirael's back. "If you feel like you'll be sick, breathe in through your mouth and out through your nose."  

Lirael did so, relieved as it did help quell the nausea threatening to rise in her throat. She wanted to show their father she was brave, that she was like all Abhorsens even if she was only a bastard and did not bear the true family name.   

The man's body was wrapped in a length of fabric and carried over to a waiting pile of logs. It was the northern custom to burn the bodies of the recently dead, for the purely practical reason that ashes could not rise and do harm, no matter how much Free Magic was used. As he had carried out the execution, Terciel also lit the pyre himself. He sketched Charter marks for flame and consuming above the body. They sparked and flared, and a moment later the whole pyre was ablaze.  

Sabriel had already mounted her horse, turning it to join the others already back on the road. Lirael re-mounted as well, but she lingered, waiting for their father. He gave her an approving look as he rode up to her side.  

"That was very...swift," Lirael said as they started after the others at a much slower pace.  

"A swift execution is a humane one," Terciel replied. "Do you understand why I had to do it?"  

"Because you're the Abhorsen," Lirael said.   

Terciel nodded slowly. "That's one reason. Another being that one should not condemn a man to death if you are not able to deliver it with your own hand."  

"Do you ever feel...bad? About it?" Lirael asked carefully. "I know you are the gatekeeper of Death but..."  

"The Gods gave us the purview to uphold justice in our world," Terciel said. "Everything has a time to die. You know what the Braavosi say?   _Valar Morghulis_ _._ All men must die. Some bring it upon themselves sooner rather than later."  

A grim sentiment, Lirael thought, but it went part and parcel with her family's work. After a moment she let out a rather strained laugh, "Perhaps that should be the Abhorsen family words. At least other people would know what they meant."  

Terciel looked at his younger daughter in amusement, but before he could reply his steward came riding up to them. Mogget was a lithe, slender man of indeterminate age, though he had been around all of Lirael's life and Sabriel's as well. His hair was white, and he had all the appearances of an albino save for his bright green eyes. Mogget wasn't even his actual name, Lirael knew, though whenever she asked he simply fixed her with a cat-like smile before changing the subject.  

"You should come quick, my lord," Mogget said in his usual bored sounding drawl. "The Lady Sabriel has found something."  

"I can't imagine it's anything good," Terciel muttered, exchanging a knowing look with Lirael before the three of them spurred their horses on to catch up with Sabriel.  

They found her standing over something half buried in the snow. It was an animal, dead, Lirael could tell even from the road. She got quickly down off her horse, picking her way carefully through the small drifts over to her sister.   

"Charter!" she gasped when she saw what it was. At her cry Terciel came hurrying, and behind him Jory Cassel and Mogget both, Jory with a hand on his sword.   

"It's  _dead,_ " Sabriel said, raising her eyebrows at the approaching men. "But look how huge it is!"   

"It’s a wolf," Lirael murmured, blinking. An enormous wolf, the size at least of some of the ponies in the stables back at Winterfell.  

Terciel moved to his daughters' side, frowning at the dead creature. "A direwolf. They haven't been seen south of the wall in two hundred years." He looked up, exchanging an unreadable look with Mogget.   

Mogget stared back, looking like he knew something they didn't. Then again, he usually did.   

Lirael turned away as the others started debating what it meant. As fascinating as the creature was, she found it a bit sad as well. The wolf must have been beautiful in life, if also completely terrifying. She perked up, frowning as she thought she heard something down by the small stream. Unnoticed by the others, Lirael began picking her way down the muddy embankment, then gasped again, this time in delight.  

A tiny black and tan pup, eyes barely open, was trying to crawl across a tangle of roots. It had its little snout in the air and was whimpering sadly. Lirael immediately bent over, scooping the pup into her arms and holding it close to her as she made her way back to the others.  

"...female certainly, must have been trying to -” Jory was saying when she returned. He frowned. "What've you got there?"  

"A puppy!" Lirael said excitedly.  

Terciel did nothing to hide his sigh, lifting one hand to his brow. "It's a wild beast, Lirael."  

"No, it's mine.” Lirael knew she sounded petulant, but she didn't particularly care. She saw doubt in everyone's face, and turned pleading eyes to her sister. Sabriel acted often enough like she was already the lady of Winterfell, if she could only just summon some of that confidence now, do this one _thing_ for Lirael's sake...  

"Lirael is good at caring for animals," Sabriel said finally. "And besides, she could use a companion, especially now that I'm spending more time training with you, Father.”  

Both girls could see their father's resolve beginning to falter. Terciel gritted his teeth and ran his fingers through his hair, which was jet black laced with grey at the temples. "You will care for it, Lirael. You alone. The kennel master won't help you. If it misbehaves you will take the blame."  

Hugging the squirming pup closer, Lirael nodded emphatically.   

There was a long moment when it looked like Terciel might change his mind, but with a breathless, "Very well," he waved his hand and turned to lead the men back to the horses.   

"What are you going to call it...her?" Sabriel said, patting the pup on the head before they too started back up to the road.   

Lirael pondered that, staring down at the pup for a long moment. "I don't know. Dog, for now."  

"Dog?" Sabriel shot her a doubtful look.  

"She hasn't told me her name yet," Lirael said, as though that explained it.  

Sabriel shook her head, but she was smiling affectionately all the same. "Oh Lirael..."  

***  

Much later that evening, Lirael made her way into her father's study. Terciel was at his desk, reading a letter that he set aside when his daughter entered. He looked up and though he looked weary, he smiled, clearly pleased to see her. Lirael may have been born a bastard, and bear the name Snow rather than Abhorsen, but she never felt that her father treated her any less than he did her sister.  

"You look troubled, is all well?" Terciel asked.   

"D'you think the man today truly saw the Others?" Lirael asked. Even with the distraction of a new puppy, she had not been able to forget the man's dying words, or the fear that was in his eyes.   

Terciel leaned back in his seat, and his hesitation did nothing to reassure her. "Your Aunt Kirrith writes that the Night's Watch is down in numbers. And not just due to deserters, they've been losing more men and women on rangings as well. Ever since your mother - “But he broke off, his brow furrowing.   

It had been Lirael's mother who refused the Lord Abhorsen's offer of marriage after Lirael was born. Arielle had been a daughter of House Clayr, one of the bannermen to the Abhorsens. The Clayr were viewed as a bit odd by the rest of the kingdom, as so many of them claimed at least to possess the strange ability known as the Greensight.   Still, House Clayr was fiercely loyal to the Abhorsens, and those that did not serve Winterfell often went to join the Night's Watch, as Lirael's Aunt Kirrith was currently doing. Because of that, the rest of the kingdom allowed the remote house a bit of leniency when it came to their peculiarities.  

Arielle had joined the watch herself when Lirael was five, only to vanish on a ranging five years later. It was generally assumed that she had died, but Lirael maintained a small modicum of hope that she was still out there somewhere.   

The sound of her father clearing his throat brought Lirael back to the present. "But, it most likely is just wildlings, in which case I should contact our allies to send an army north."  

"But the man said -"   

"The Others are gone, Lirael," Terciel said, a little too abruptly. "They are as dead as the Children."  

Lirael maintained her skepticism. "But Kirrith told me once that the Clayr are descended from the Children -"   

"Sweetheart." Terciel held up his hand. "Whether that is true or simply a tale the Clayr like to tell..."  

"But how else would they have the greensight?!"   

Terciel smiled gently and got to his feet, circling around the desk. He cupped Lirael's face in his broad, calloused hands, then kissed her forehead, lips leaving her Charter mark tingling slightly. "My sweet girl, I am too tired to argue about this right now."  

"Alright." She took a deep breath, then looked at him again. "Father is something wrong?"  

He drew back, and she knew before he spoke that she had guessed correctly.  "There was a raven from King's Landing today," he said. "You probably don't remember Jon Arryn, the king's hand, but he was a good friend of mine. We fought side by side during the rebellion."  

Lirael knew what he was going to say and let out a soft, sorrowful noise. "I'm sorry, Father."  

"There's other news as well," Terciel said, glancing back at the letter on the table. "The king and his family ride for Winterfell."  

Worry was suddenly replaced with nervous excitement. Lirael tucked her hair behind her ear. "The king is coming here?"  

"Do you know of another Winterfell?" Terciel teased, but there was no real feeling behind it. He seemed dazed and exhausted again, sitting down heavily. "It's a three month journey from King's Landing, but knowing Robert's tastes it will take us just as long to plan for their stay. I already told Sabriel, no doubt she's begun arrangements..." He trailed off for a moment, then looked at her, almost remorsefully. "I'm afraid I've spoiled you a bit."  

Lirael frowned. "Sorry?"  

"In my mind you are no less a child of mine than Sabriel is," Terciel said. "But to most, the fact that I was married to her mother, and that I never married yours somehow changes you."  

"I know," Lirael said, but she could already feel her heart sinking.   

"It would be disrespectful to sit the king and queen at the same table as a bastard child," Terciel said, his mouth puckering as though the word were a bad taste on his tongue. "Queen Cersei especially would have none of that."   

Lirael swallowed thickly. She knew her father said none of this to hurt her, and in fact it was for the best, but that did nothing to quell the unpleasant sting in the pit of her stomach. "It's alright, Father," she said quietly. "I can sit with Sulyn and Ellimere, we get along well enough." In truth the two foster children from the much smaller House Wyverly were more Sabriel's friends, being of an age with her, but Lirael did not mind so much.  

"Thank you," Terciel murmured, still gazing at her apologetically. "It does pain me to ask this of you."  

_But you do anyway._   She found herself thinking bitterly. Still she managed a smile and went over to kiss her father's cheek and say goodnight.   

Back in her room, Lirael curled up under the covers and tried to be excited about the prospect of meeting the royal family, even if they would think less of her. Her father always told her that no matter what her name was on paper, she was a daughter of House Abhorsen, though as she grew older Lirael found herself doubting that more and more.   

A soft rustling came as Dog, as though sensing something was amiss, crawled from her spot at the end of the bed to nestle against Lirael. As she rolled over onto her side and lay a hand on the tiny pup's warm fur, Lirael could have sworn something in the back of her mind murmured,  _It’s_ _alright_ _,_ but it may have simply been the onset of a dream.  

 

 


	2. Torrigan

 

Inside the Great Sept, the air hung thick and heavy with the smell of incense. The Silent Sisters had done their job tending to the body of Jon Arryn, but always death carried with it a particular, lingering scent. Two of the kingsguard stood watch over the former Hand; Torrigan and a recent addition, Ser Ellith. They had been standing at attention for a few hours so far, and had a few more hours left to go yet - it was not exactly the most ideal of postings.  

Shifting his weight as imperceptibly as possible, Torrigan let his gaze wander around the Sept. Each of the seven sides held a shrine to one of the gods: Ranna, the sleepy-eyed, peaceful maiden; Mosrael, the smiling Mother; Kibeth, quick-footed Warrior; Dyrim, the Father, voice of judgment  and reason; Belgaer the wise crone; Saraneth the Smith; and finally, the hooded and mysterious Astarael, the  Stranger. Seven gods, seven towering stone statues staring down at them as they stood vigil.   

Stone. Like his name, Torrigan Stone. Like Braavosi warriors said -  _Still_ _as Stone_ _,_  which he repeated silently to himself as his legs started to feel restless again.  

The doors of the Sept swung open and two more white-cloaked men of the kingsguard entered.  It was not Robert Baratheon between them but Queen Cersei, her crimson gown trailing behind her as she strode down the steps to the main floor of the Sept, leaving her guards by the door. Torrigan thought whichever god made her a Lannister chose well; the queen moved with the slinking grace of a lioness pondering her prey.   

The queen barely glanced at Torrigan or his companion. She kept her eyes on Jon Arryn's body, her head bowed slightly as though in prayer. The Silent Sisters moved out of the way so the queen could make a slow circle, for all appearances simply paying her respects to her lord husband’s closest advisor.   

Torrigan could tell something was wrong. Cersei's brow was furrowed, her eyes darting from side to side. She seemed unsettled as well, clasping and unclasping her hands. After a moment she looked up and met his gaze. They had similar features, he knew, the shape of the eyes and mouth, the jawline, but he was darker, his eyes a different kind of pale. He had not gotten the Lannister coloring.  

"This incense is choking me," Cersei said, waving her hand in front of her face. Then she gestured at Torrigan. "Come with me while I walk the balcony for a moment."  

He was not supposed to leave his post, but no one would argue with the queen. Nor would his companion find it odd - Torrigan was her brother's son after all (as far as Ser Ellith knew) and Cersei had a certain affection for her nephew.  

The two of them went up the small back stair to the balcony that ran high above the heads of even the tall gods. They were alone up here, which only heightened Torrigan's suspicion that something was indeed wrong. And then Cersei stopped in the shadow of one of the broad pillars. She looked over at him, her expression unreadable.  

"Your grace?" he chanced.   

"We ride for Winterfell tomorrow," Cersei said, speaking lowly. "Robert plans to make Lord Abhorsen his new Hand, gods know why. But you'll come with, of course. It's good of my Lord Husband to be so understanding that I would rather have my brother and...Nephew...at my side above others." She laughed quietly.   

Torrigan gave a little nod, but he was still curious as to why she would bring him up her to tell him something that Ser Barriston would no doubt inform him of when he returned to the keep that night. Still, when Cersei remained silent for another full minute he said again, "Your grace? Was there..."  

"Is a mother not allowed to speak with her son somewhere far away from prying eyes?" She spoke even quieter now.  

"Lord Varys -” Torrigan began, but Cersei laughed, turning to catch his jaw in an  _almost_ affectionate way.   

"If our spider has not yet figured out that you're my bastard and not Jaime's, then he is a poor spymaster indeed," she said, finally letting her hand fall. Then she turned and peered back down into the Sept. "Tell me, do you find anything about this suspicious?"  

Torrigan frowned. "About what?" Then, when she made another gesture he realized she meant Jon Arryn's death. Torrigan's frown deepened. "No...should I?"  

Cersei looked like she was going to say more, then she shrugged and waved her hand dismissively. In a lightning fast change of pace she said next -”I'm surprised they posted you with Ser Ellith, I heard you nearly bashed his skull in two weeks ago."  

Torrigan felt his face flush. He had hoped word of that incident hadn't reached her ears, but he should have known better. "It wasn't that bad," he muttered, sounding more like a resentful teenager than he ever had.  

"Jaime says otherwise."  

"We were..." he sighed heavily. "We were returning to the city and had stopped at an inn along the kingsroad. The innkeeper's daughter was very lovely and Ellith would not leave her be, even after she told him several times that she was a maid and promised to the butcher's son."  

Cersei arched one eyebrow at him. "Did you want her for yourself?" she said, sounding unimpressed.  

“No." Torrigan felt a flash of annoyance at the suggestion, looking at his mother sharply before he lowered his gaze. "No, I...I heard her crying out later, and I went down to find that he had cornered her in the stables. So I...lost my temper and threw him off of her."  

"Lost your temper? You nearly killed him."  

He clenched his jaw. "I was furious. Rape is one of the most despicable and dishonorable things a man can do."  

Cersei laughed. "What is it the northmen would say about you?   _You sweet summer child_ _._ "  

"Well it is!" Torrigan took a deep breath and let it out. "I do not know what came over me."  

She was studying him intently again, and he wondered what she was thinking. Whatever it was, she did not say. After a moment Cersei sighed and gestured that they should head back downstairs. As they reached the bottom she said, "We'll have one of my men relieve you, you should return with me to the Keep and prepare for the journey tomorrow."  

Torrigan bowed, catching the look that Ser Ellith threw him. "Yes, your grace."  

***  

Later that night Torrigan was in his rooms packing what he needed for the three month journey to Winterfell.  He had never in his life been farther north than the Vale - a journey he remembered mostly as the  weeks  he spent wondering what man from that area had possibly managed to get a child on Cersei Lannister.   

He had just packed the last of his things when someone knocked on the door. Torrigan straightened. "Yes?"  

The speed with which the door was thrown open told Torrigan just   who it was before they had even crossed the threshold. Prince Rogirrek strode in as though he owned the room, and cast a slightly disdainful look around.  Where Torrigan was muddled dirty blonde with strangely pale eyes, Rogir was all Lannister gold, his eyes as green and sharp as their mother's. Beneath the coloring, however, the two men shared a great deal of resemblance.   

"Are you excited, cousin?" Rogir asked, a smile crossing his face. Being of a close age to one another, they had often played together as children, though in later years Torrigan found himself liking Rogir's proud nature less and less.   

"It will be fascinating to see the north, certainly," Torrigan said. "Though I'm not too keen on spending three months on the road."   

Rogir wrinkled his nose at the thought as he crossed the room to drop onto the window   seat, peering out through the small window to the city beyond. "I do hear the Lord Abhorsen's elder daughter is quite lovely," he said, managing to sound entirely bored by the idea as he added, "Perhaps Father will decide we should be married."  

"Perhaps so," Torrigan said. He found himself thinking that would be unfortunate for the girl, though he wasn't sure where that thought came from.  

"I hear he has a bastard too," Rogir grinned again. "So perhaps we will both have wives out of this."  

Torrigan gave him a sideways look, taking the time to gauge the prince's mood. He saw all the signs that it was a humorous one, and playfully threw a pair of rolled up socks at his head.  Rogir laughed and hurled it back at him.  

"Watch yourself, Ser," he said, but with no real threat behind his words.  

"No matter," Torrigan said, cracking a sly grin. "I already have my wife." He glanced at his white cloak where it hung on the back of the door.   

Rogir snorted. "You're so  _noble._ "  

Torrigan raised his eyebrows, looking at him. "Was there something you needed, highness?"  

"Has Mother said anything to you about Jon Arryn?"  

"What?" Torrigan paused, recalling his conversation with Cersei earlier.  

Rogir leaned forward a bit. "About his death, more specifically. She gets this...thoughtful look when she speaks of it as though she knows something."  

"Why would she tell me if she did?"   

Silence followed that, in which the two boys looked at each other across the room. They had never spoken of it, and Rogir called Torrigan 'cousin' for all their lives, but Rogir  _knew._   Torrigan was sure of that. He knew they were half-brothers, knew that his mother had given birth to Torrigan a year before he was born. It was worrisome, knowing that he had that knowledge, especially since he was beginning to show his true Lannister greed for power.   

Rogir got to his feet, and patted Torrigan on the shoulder. "Good night, coz, I shall see you in the morning."  

***  

Torrigan remembered once when he couldn't have been more than five years old, he had accompanied the royal family down to the Arbor. Mostly he remembered the long hours spent playing with Rogir, as the prince had been his dearest friend at the time. One afternoon during some long summer the two of them had been running around with wooden swords while Robert and Cersei watched.   

Rogir had gotten in one good hit that sent Torrigan to the ground, the gravel of the path they were on tearing through his leggings. Still excusably young, Torrigan had begun to cry when he saw his bloodied knees. When Cersei swept over to them he had, without thinking, held up his arms and wailed "Mummy!"    

A long moment of silence followed that in which Torrigan held his breath and Robert looked on with raised eyebrows.   

Then all at once Cersei let out a short laugh and scooped him up, saying dismissively, "Oh, Torrigan, you're far too big a boy to be crying over scraped knees." When she brought him back over to the king, who was still frowning at them, she said, "Come now, husband, did you never call your nurse or septa 'mother' by accident when you were young?"  

Robert had accepted that quite easily, but the minute he looked away Cersei had given Torrigan a thoroughly cold, warning frown   . He knew better.  

***  

Torrigan was down in the dining hall early the following morning. Robert wanted to depart as early as possible, so though the sun was just barely risen already the keep bustled with activity. Most of the packing had been done the previous night, but now everything had to be carried out to the carriages and last minute lists checked over.  

Someone clapped Torrigan on the shoulder and sat down across from him. "Well," said Jaime, peering over with all the paternal curiosity he could muster. "Are you excited?"  

"Oh yes," Torrigan managed a rather drowsy, forced smile. "Three months of listening to Tommen and Myrcella ask 'are we there yet'."   

Jaime laughed. "You've got my optimism, I'm so glad."  

"In truth I do think it will be quite interesting." Torrigan said, pushing the last of his eggs around his plate. His brow furrowed a bit. "Why did you tell her grace about what happened the other week?" He knew he did not need to clarify.  

"Really?" Some of the amusement left Jaime's face, but not all of it. "She didn't punish you, did she?"  

Torrigan glanced up at him, then down at the table again. "No, she laughed."  

Jaime chuckled at that. "Because it was funny. For all your brawn you're usually so mild mannered. You did not get that from me." He reached over to pat one of Torrigan's muscular arms. "I often wonder where you got this bulk from as well."  

"Perhaps I got it from my mother," said Torrigan. The minute he did he realized it probably sounded a lot more bitter than was wise. Jaime Lannister was not known for having a bad temper, but family or no it was never a wise idea to poke a lion in the eye.   

Jaime's smile had frozen, one of his eyebrows arching. "You're certainly getting bolder."  

Two other guards sat down beside them, talking cheerfully. Torrigan all but ignored them.  

"Forgive me, Father," he said, working to keep his tone sincere.   

“No.  Bold is good," Jaime said. "Bold keeps you alive."  

_Your boldness led you to kill the Mad King_ _,_ Torrigan thought as he watched Jaime start on breakfast.   Immediately he hated himself for the thought. His uncle had always been kind to him and indeed treated him as a father should treat his son. As long as Torrigan could remember however he knew Jaime wasn’t his father, and that had always created some conflict of feeling within him. Nevertheless he did respect his uncle a great deal.  

They finished their breakfast in silence, then Torrigan followed Jaime up to the royal apartments. Their own belongings had already been taken down to the carriages, now all that was left was to collect the king and queen and children and depart. They reached the apartments to find that Rogir and the king had already gone down - Cersei was collecting a few last things, Tommen and Myrcella waiting patiently in the hallway in their new traveling clothes.   

Tommen looked up at Torrigan and Jaime as they approached. "Mother says I have to ride in the wheelhouse the whole time!" he said, sounding as displeased as a young prince possibly could.   

Torrigan smiled. The two youngest Lannisters were sweet children, calm and placid. He thought many times that perhaps that was due to Rogir's personality being large enough for the three of them.   

"The king's road is very dangerous, my prince," Jaime said to Tommen in a serious tone. "Especially once we get past The Neck."   

"But that won't be for weeks," Tommen said. He turned his imploring gaze to his cousin. "Torri tell them."  

Jaime shot him an amused look that was clearly asking if he'd been sneaking his little cousin sweets again.  

"Listen to your Uncle, highness," Torrigan said. "Your mother is worried for your safety."  

"What?" Cersei had appeared finally, pulling her fur lined cloak about her shoulders. She shot Torrigan a suspicious look. "What are you telling him?"  

"Merely why it is best he stay with you for the journey," Torrigan said, straightening.  

"I certainly hope our safety won't be in jeopardy," Cersei said. She looked around. "Are Robert and Rogir down already? Yes, well then we should be as well, come along." She shooed the two little ones ahead of her to where their maid stood waiting, then cast Torrigan and Jaime one last look before following.  

Within the hour the caravan was rumbling at a steady pace out of the city, Torrigan riding beside his uncle just ahead of the royal wheelhouse. At the front Robert rode, waving to his people as they passed, everyone cheering them on. Torrigan glanced over at Jaime and knew they were both thinking the same thing; this was going to be a very long seven months.  

 


	3. Clariel

Standing on the balcony of her rooms, Clariel could see out across Pentos to the shining waters of the bay. The city itself stood silhouetted against the sunset and from far below she could hear the sounds of children playing, merchants calling out the last of the day's wares, people laughing and talking as they made their way home.  Clariel gripped at the railing, envying their freedom.

She wanted more than anything to be able to leave the walls of Magister Harven's manse, to be able to wander the streets as she pleased. To go to the market alone, to the docks, to the _ships_ that could carry her to Braavos and Slavers Bay, away from this wretched city she had looked at year after year.

More than anything, she wanted to return to Westeros. Her only memory of that land was from when she was no more than three, but it stuck with her: she remembered running through a cool forest, the wind on her face and leaves beneath her bare feet. There were no forests like that in Essos.

A noise behind her made Clariel turn. It was only one of the maids, filling a large tub in the middle of the room. Clariel watched her but it was with disinterest. Her mother had said time and time again that Clariel should be _grateful;_ Magister Harven had taken them in out of the kindness of his heart and in doing so had likely saved their lives.  Clariel wrinkled her nose at the thought - she was sure her mother thanked Harven every night for his generosity.

She immediately felt guilty for having the thought. They probably _wouldn't_ still be alive if it weren't for the magister. Either they would have starved in the streets or someone would have recognized them for who they were—dragons with the black hair and pale skin of Jaciel's father's family were still dragons, and both of them had those distinctive violet eyes that were so hard to hide. If what Jaciel said was true, then the usurper Robert Baratheon would have all the seven kingdoms after their heads.

"Dragons should not have to fear stags," Clariel muttered under her breath.

One of the maids looked up. "Did you say something, milady?"

The bath was full now, the water steaming even in the warm evening air. Clariel unceremoniously undid her robe and let it fall to the floor. She looked at the maid. "Just reminding myself not to be afraid."

"All girls are nervous the day before their wedding," the maid said. She was a cheerful girl with the brown almond eyes of the Dothraki, and though she had a heavy accent she spoke the common tongue better than most of Harven's servants. And she certainly liked to speak. "But you are marrying a very handsome and wealthy young man, you should be happy, also!"

"Do you know anything of my future husband other than the fact that he is so aesthetically pleasing?" Clariel asked.

The maid thought a moment. "Lord Aronzo's father is one of the Thirteen."

"The thirteen?" Clariel trailed her hand in the water. It was still incredibly hot, but she climbed over the edge and sank into it nonetheless.

"Milady-!" The maid gasped, reaching out as though to stop her. She let her hands fall when she saw that the hot water did not seem to bother Clariel.

 _Fire cannot kill a dragon. Warm bathwater does even less_ , Clariel thought, closing her eyes and leaning back against the edge of the tub. "I believe I asked you a question," she murmured.

"Oh the..." the maid floundered. "The Thirteen are the lords of Qarth, milady. Your husband's father is a renowned trader of gold and jewels."

Clariel nodded, and asked no more questions as the maid moved to begin washing her short, black hair. She did not want gold or jewels. She did not want to marry a wealthy merchant's son, no matter how good looking he reportedly was.

She soaked for a long time in the bath, and was just drying off when someone stepped into the room and both the maids dropped into low bows. Holding her towel tightly about herself, Clariel turned to see her mother, the Lady Jaciel, standing in the doorway. Jaciel had a length of dark purple fabric draped over one arm.

"Leave us," Jaciel said to the maids. They hurried out past her and she crossed the room towards her daughter. The Lady Jaciel was a striking woman, tall and strong, her long, jet black hair just beginning to shine with silver.  She might have taken after her father—the late Lord Tyriel Abhorsen—in coloring, but she had the features of a Targaryen. "Harven bought this for you as a gift," she said, holding the cloth out to Clariel.

"Thank you," Clariel said dully. She took the cloth and found it was a dress, light and gauzy so as not to be overwhelming in the heat of Pentos.

"Well, put it on, we don't have long before we must go meet your soon-to-be husband," Jaciel said. She watched Clariel intently, one of her long-fingered hands toying with the choker of golden teardrops she wore at her throat. It was one of the last pieces of jewelry she had been able to make before being forced to flee Westeros, and the only one at all that remained to her.

Clariel pulled on the dress. It was nice, but like beautiful husbands and endless riches, she could not appreciate it the way everyone seemed to think she should.

"Stop sulking," Jaciel said sharply. "You're getting married tomorrow."

"I don't care," Clariel muttered. "All I want is to be left alone."

Suddenly her mother loomed over her, face pinched in annoyance. "Left alone?" she hissed, looking more like a dragon than ever. "This is the _only_ way you _will_ be left alone. We live on borrowed time, Clariel, since your father was killed and your grandfather murdered. Someday word will reach Robert Baratheon that Rhaegar Targaryen's wife and daughter survived the assault on Dragonstone and our best hope is to get as far from Westeros as possible. In Qarth you may be able to live as freely as you wish, but for Qarth you need Aronzo. So you _will_ marry him and you _will_ attempt to look happy about it!"

 "And how is Lord bloody Aronzo going to keep us alive if seven kingdoms want us dead?!" Clariel almost shouted, her ire rising to match her mother's.

Jaciel stared at her long and hard, then closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. When she opened them again she had visibly calmed. "I know you do not want this," she said quietly. "Sometimes we must do things we do not want, if it means staying alive. Qarth is far enough that we will be safe from the usurper's grasp."

"Is that your way of saying you did not _want_ to sell me?" Clariel asked bitterly.

"I did not sell you, Clariel."

 _Yes you did_ , she thought. _You sold me for safety._ She knew she was being unfair. Clariel thought again about her mother and Harven, and even though he was far from a cruel or unlikable man, she had seen enough to know exactly what lengths Jaciel would go to in order to keep them safe. Clariel knew she wasn't the only one getting sold. 

Looking down, Clariel smoothed her hands over her dress. "Couldn't your father's family protect us?" she asked quietly. "I thought they were the lords of the north or something."

"My cousin Terciel is the lord of Winterfell since my father's death," Jaciel said, moving to help Clariel with the lacing of her dress. "Terciel supported my father when he disowned my mother and me." She spoke in a clipped tone, and Clariel knew better than to push the topic.

Instead Clariel looked at herself in the long mirror beside the window. She did not look like herself. More often than not Clariel preferred to be in trousers and a tunic, with a dagger at her hip instead of jewelry at her throat and fingers. She belonged in the forest, not the arms of some merchant's son.

As always the worst part was the utter helplessness that she felt.

***

They traveled that evening in one of Harvan's covered palanquins to a manse owned by Aronzo's father Kilp. Kilp himself was still in Qarth, Jaciel explained, his duties preventing him from making the long journey across the continent even for the wedding of his son. "Though no doubt there will be more celebrations when we reach Qarth," she had said.

When the palanquin came to a stop outside the manse, Clariel ignored the hand one of Aronzo's servants offered, and climbed down herself, holding her flowing skirts up. The house rose before her, extravagant and shining with candles and lanterns in the night. The front doors stood open and she could hear voices and music floating out to her.

Harven led the way inside, with Clariel and Jaciel following. Clariel tilted her chin up. Her stomach twisted with anxiety as they moved through the grand foyer and through to a garden open to the sky, but she refused to show any of that worry on her face.  At least stepping out into the garden gave her a chance to survey the other guests, and she found a surprising mixture of people: dark-skinned Dothraki riders, even darker Summer Islanders in gleaming feather cloaks, people from Myr and Tyrosh and the other Free Cities. Clariel even spotted over in one corner a young man wearing a deep blue tunic of a design she'd only ever seen on people from Westeros.

"My lady," Harven touched her arm and nodded. Standing by the large central fountain was a young man surrounded by a group of onlookers and admirers. He wore fine robes and jewelry, had dark hair and a narrow, handsome face. "That is the Lord Aronzo, your new husband."

Clariel continued to look at him. Aronzo glanced their way, his lips curving slightly when he spotted her. He had light brown eyes, but there was something eerily cold about his gaze. Clariel shuddered involuntarily. "I don't like him."

"Don't be ridiculous," Jaciel muttered. "You haven't even met him yet."

"I don't like the way he looks."

"He's a very handsome young man, and you're being a child."

Clariel opened her mouth to suggest that perhaps if she was a child she was not yet ready to be married, but Harven cleared his throat and said they should speak with Aronzo first. Jaciel gave Clariel one last warning look before she gestured her assent.

"If you will come with me," Harven said, looking relieved, "I shall introduce you."

Clariel reluctantly took his arm, allowing herself to be led over to the fountain. She wished that someone had at least offered her a glass of wine first, but by the time she spotted the nearest servant, they were already standing before Aronzo.

"My lord," Harven said with a small bow. "May I present the Lady Clariel of House Targaryen, and her mother, the Lady Jaciel."

Harven let go Clariel's arm. Aronzo's smile—which was cold and almost a little hungry—did not falter as he took her hand and kissed her fingers. "My lady," he said, his voice low and smooth. "The picture sent of you did nothing to show your true beauty."

It took all of Clariel's willpower not to laugh, and she somehow turned a mocking sneer into something close to a polite smile. "Lord Aronzo, it is a pleasure to meet you."

Then Harven introduced Jaciel, and the four of them shared a brief conversation on idle topics before, to Clariel's great relief, Aronzo began telling Jaciel about his plans for the ceremony the next day. A server finally came by, and Clariel took a glass of a sweet golden wine from him, sipping at it and using that as a cover to look around. Her gaze once again went to the boy in westerosi clothing. He was even paler than her, but had the same black hair and similar enough features.

Sure enough, when Harven saw where she was looking he murmured, "That is Ser Belatiel Abhorsen, a cousin of yours, if I'm not mistaken. Or a cousin of your mother’s I should say."

"What's he doing here?" Clariel asked.

"From what I've heard," Harven said, looking bemused. "Your grandfather made more enemies than friends."

That was hardly a satisfying answer, but Clariel doubted she'd get more information from him. Seeing that her mother and betrothed were still deep in conversation, Clariel made her way over to Belatiel herself. He smiled when he saw her.

"You must be the Lady Clariel," he said with a deep bow. "I am Belatiel. You may call me Bel, however, being that we are kin."

Clariel looked him over. "Magister Harven said you're a knight."

"Depends on who you ask," Belatiel said with a slight grin. "I've certainly fought before. The living and the dead. I keep my bell bandolier at home, however, it attracts too many questions at parties."

"Right." Clariel found herself smiling a little. Bel seemed friendly enough, certainly more easygoing than her lord husband. "So what brings you to Pentos?"

"You, actually," Belatiel said.

Before he could elaborate, Aronzo had swept over to them. He stood far too close to Clariel, peering down his slender nose at Belatiel. "I hear you are my lady's cousin, rat-catcher."

"Aye, my lord," Belatiel said. "Though you may do well to remember if you call me a rat-catcher you also insult your lady wife, as it is the Abhorsen blood we share."

"Both my lady and the Abhorsens who sit in Winterfell are a far cry from you though, are they not?" Aronzo said, unconcerned. "They have actual White Walkers to keep at bay, instead of chasing half-dead dogs through the sewers and costing their neighbors more coin than they're worth."

Clariel's brow furrowed. She knew of course what _the_ Lord or Lady Abhorsen did. It was the family duty to deal with the Dead and Free Magic, assuming one was actually raised within the family. Overall it sounded rather important to her, at least, and she couldn't quite figure out why Aronzo mocked it so. But perhaps he simply did not like her cousin.

Belatiel bowed, turning back to her. "Before I take my leave, coz, I would like to offer my sword. If you will have me I would gladly accompany you on your journey to Qarth, and help guard you against what trouble may arise."

"I..." Clariel began. She wanted to know what trouble he was expecting. She wanted to say loudly (and for Aronzo's benefit) that she could take care of herself. But she also knew she would like the company of someone like Belatiel. Knowing Aronzo no doubt had his own opinions on this offer, she said then, "I would happily accept your service, thank you."

Belatiel smiled, bid them good night, then turned and strode off across the garden.

Aronzo snorted, then turned to Clariel. "He is a good fighter, I suppose, but do not trust him simply because he is your kin. Come now, I have many people I would like to show you off to."

Clariel took his arm and said nothing, she simply closed her lips and gritted her teeth.

The evening did draw to a close, though not soon enough. At the door of the manse Aronzo kissed her cheek with exaggerated tenderness, telling her how thrilled he was for their wedding on the morrow. Clariel managed to bid him goodnight before returning to the palanquin. She and her mother and Harven rode back to his home in silence, Clariel twisting her hands in her lap and knowing she had a long, sleepless night ahead of her.

***

The wedding took place under a bright sunny sky, down by the sea where the cool breezes off the water kept the day's heat at bay. The large grassy plateau was filled with tents and long tables, musicians and performers, food and drink and even more guests than had been at Aronzo's manse the previous night. Jaciel was unusually outgoing, and by the time the celebrations following the ceremony commenced, had acquired her own flock of admirers.

Clariel watched her mother sullenly from her place beside Aronzo, and wondered why Jaciel couldn't have simply married herself off.

Aronzo leaned over, reaching out to grasp her hand in his. "Is this not a glorious, wife? And tomorrow we shall depart for Qarth."

"How long a journey is it to Quarth?" Clariel asked.

" _Qarth_."

She narrowed her eyes slightly. "That's what I said."

"It is ' _ca_ rth' my lady, not ' _cwa_ rth,'" Aronzo said, sounding far too pleased to be correcting her. The hand that did not hold one of hers held a glass of wine, and he took a generous sip of it before adding. "It is a long journey; we do have a whole continent to cross. We must cut across the bottom of the Dothraki sea, and the Red Wastes, and then we will find Qarth where it sits on the shore of the Jade Sea."

Clariel pondered that, trying to picture Essos in her mind's eye. "Would it not be easier to sail?" she asked.

"Sailing would require going too close to Valyria," Aronzo said. "Dothraki savages can be held at bay with steel. Demons cannot."

She raised an eyebrow at him, finding it a little odd that he would condemn what Belatiel did if he feared demons so badly, but she also did not feel like arguing. The journey would be long, and no doubt difficult, but it would also mean seeing a great many places she had not seen before, and that at least would prove exciting.

Still, Clariel's shoulders slumped. _East is not home_.

Aronzo looked at her, surprised, and only then did Clariel realize she had said the last thought aloud. "East is your home now, my dear wife. But do not fret, in Qarth you shall live as a proper princess."

Clariel wanted to yank her hand from his, to shout that she didn't want to be a princess. She simply wanted to go back to the cool and shadowy forests of Westeros and be free. Free from people who wanted her dead for something she had no control over, free of people telling her what to do, free of jewels and silks and covered palanquins. But all Clariel did was stare down at her finely crafted sandals and sigh.

"Speaking of living as a princess, I believe it is time for gifts!" Aronzo said, gesturing to someone with his wine goblet.

"Lovely," Clariel said flatly as she looked up as the people gathering around their dais.

First came the lesser gifts: more jewelry and sandals, clothing, treasures for her new home. From Harven came a beautifully crafted saddle and harness, which went well with Belatiel's gift of a spirited roan mare.

Her husband presented her with—among other things—two handmaidens. One was short, with a pleasant round face and dark, almond eyes. Her name was Denima, and she smiled at Clariel as she was introduced. The second girl was a slim and pale Lysene girl named Yaneem. She kept shooting looks at Aronzo, and did not smile once.

"Both have a great deal to teach you in addition to serving," Aronzo said, as though he had given Clariel textbooks instead of living girls. "Denima knows a number of languages and the ways of many peoples. Yaneem is skilled in the...womanly arts, and will instruct you as such."

"Thank you," Clariel said, managing to sound sufficiently uninterested. She had never really liked the idea of having personal servants, mostly because it made her feel far too dependent. Though Denima's offer of new languages and cultures pricked her attention, the idea of learning the 'womanly arts' from Yaneem—or from anyone—had nothing for her.

Jaciel's gift came last. She brought to Clariel a box shaped like a small treasure chest and exquisitely crafted. For a moment Clariel thought the box itself was the gift, as lovely as it was. The lid was of oak, the box of rowan. Gold was fitted along all the edges, and the lock plate shone silver. The wooden sides were inlaid with patterns of bright white bone. 

"It is an heirloom of our family," Jaciel said. "Brought from the shadowlands beyond Asshai." She paused. "Well go on, open the box."

Clariel blinked, not realizing how carefully she had been studying the box. She reached for the lid, feeling an odd sensation on the back of her neck as she lifted it. When she finally saw what was inside Clariel let out a breath. The box was filed with grey sand, or perhaps ash, and nestled inside was a large egg - though Clariel had never before seen an egg quite like it.

It was large, and the shell was covered in what looked like tiny scales. As the lid fell open she saw that in the light it was not grey but rather metallic, like antiqued silver. It was heavy as well, which she discovered as she lifted it in both hands and held it up.

"Gods above," Aronzo breathed. "Is that..."

"A dragon egg?" Clariel looked up with wide eyes at her mother.

Jaciel nodded, smiling faintly. "We believe so. Though if it is, the ages have turned it to stone. Still, it is beautiful, and a fitting reminder of where we come from."

"Thank you," Clariel whispered, cradling the egg to her. The sun must have warmed it, for she could feel the heat against her breast through the material of her gown. It had to be the most wonderful thing her mother had ever given her. "Thank you, Mother."

***

The celebration continued well into the night, with more food and drink and music. After the sun sank below the horizon and the youngest and oldest guests returned home, the revelries grew considerably more unabashed. Aronzo managed to coerce Clariel into a few obligatory dances, but quickly decided it wasn't worth the effort and went to join a group of his friends. Clariel did her best to look content sitting with Denima and Yaneem. She did wish she could talk more with Belatiel, but she was fairly sure the young man had left earlier.

Dancing was not the wedding activity Clariel found herself dreading the most, however. As the night grew later, Clariel found herself growing more anxious as she thought about what was expected of her and Aronzo that evening. It took some prompting from Denima, but Clariel finally voiced her concerns in a low whisper to the two young women.

"Being nervous is entirely normal," Yaneem told her, sounding a bit bored.

Clariel shook her head. "I'm not nervous. The thought of lying with him just makes me feel...ill."

"Do you not like men?" Denima asked. "Do you prefer women, perhaps?"

"I don't think so." Clariel looked Denima over consideringly, then Yaneem. Logically she knew they were both lovely girls, in the same way she knew Aronzo was handsome. But when she tried to imagine kissing them, or bedding one of them...nothing. "I don't think I prefer anyone."

Yaneem looked dubious. "The first time I lay with a man I was terrified. But he was...oh, so lovely and strong that with the fear there was an ache also."

Clariel looked over at Aronzo, talking with two men. She snorted. "I definitely do not ache for him." When she looked back at Yaneem she was surprised to see her expression had changed entirely. She looked...relieved? No, that didn't make sense. Yaneem schooled the expression in before Clariel could ask.

"Well," said Yaneem, leaning closer. "If you truly do not wish to lie with him tonight..."

"Yes?"

"It's fairly easy; make sure his lordship drinks another skin of wine," she said, shrugging. "A little more in his system and he will fall asleep the minute he touches the bed, and he will be likely to believe whatever you tell him in the morning."

Clariel did not know nor care how Yaneem knew that. "Truly? If I say we did our, erm, duty, he will believe it?"

"Tell him it was very passionate and heated," Yaneem said lowly. "And to be certain, cut yourself somewhere he will not notice and smear the blood on the sheets." Then she stood. "Might I go fetch us some more wine, my lady?"

"Yes," Clariel was still mulling it all over in her mind. "Yes. And make sure my...husband has a full glass as well."

Yaneem bowed and got to her feet, looking pleased as she strode off. On Clariel's other side, Denima shook her head.

"What?" Clariel asked.

Denima leaned in confidingly. "Yaneem is enamored of your husband."

"Good. She can have him."

"My lady!" Denima's eyes went wide.

"What?" Clariel shrugged. "I mean it. Is that why she told me all of that so readily? She is jealous and does not actually want me to sleep with him?"

Denima still looked thoroughly scandalized, but she gave a slow nod all the same.

Clariel patted her arm. "It's fine, really."

She craned her neck and looked out over the crowd, to where Yaneem had brought Aronzo more wine. The two were talking, Yaneem batting her eyelashes and smiling, Aronzo mostly indifferent though not ignoring her entirely. Perhaps, Clariel thought, this could work. At least for now. At least until she found a way to escape.

 


	4. Sabriel

The royal caravan streamed through the gates in a river of red and gold, punctuated here and there by the shine of winter sunlight on steel. Sabriel stood proudly beside her father, waiting to greet their guests as the lady of Winterfell. With her mother having died in childbirth, and her father never remarrying, the place was always Sabriel's, even when she was too young to understand what that fully meant. Now at eighteen, a woman grown, she felt that she bore the title with all the strength expected of her.  

Watching the column of riders closely she was able to pick out a few she recognized, mostly from descriptions her father had given her: there were Barriston Selmy, commander of the Kingsguard, and beside him Jamie Lannister, the queen's twin brother; following after them was a young man who had to be Torrigan Stone, Jamie Lannister's bastard son and another well-respected member of the kingsguard, though he was only a year or so older than Sabriel; King Robert was impossible to miss, of course, as was Prince Rogirrek, eldest of the royal children. The younger two would be riding with their mother the queen in the large wheelhouse at the center of the riders. Sabriel knew that Ser Jaime and Queen Cersei also had a younger brother, but she did not spy Tyrion Lannister among the fray. 

Robert Baratheon was the first to dismount. He was a large man, red-faced behind his dark, bristly beard, and looking almost nothing like Terciel had described him back when they were young. Still he was smiling as he walked over to wrap an arm around Terciel and pull him into a brotherly embrace. "Terciel! You haven't changed a bit, though I'd say if you get any paler you will be as white as this snow you're so fond of!" 

Behind him the queen had gotten out of the wheel house with the Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella. Others were dismounting as well, and stable hands hurried forward to take horses. 

"Your Grace," Terciel said, smiling. "It is good to see you again. Winterfell is yours." 

"For that I am most grateful, old friend," Robert said, clapping Terciel on the shoulder. He turned to Sabriel then, taking her hand to kiss it while Sabriel curtsied. "And this must be your daughter, Gods but she's a beauty, isn't she? My lady." 

"Your Grace," Sabriel murmured. "Welcome." She repeated the greeting to Queen Cersei, who in turn introduced the children. 

Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella were sweet mannered little ones, which left Sabriel thinking that they had not yet grown into their Lannister heritage. Rogirrek – or Rogir, as he suggested she call him – on the other hand left her feeling wary and uncertain. There was no denying his charm, or his attractiveness, but she had seen something cold and almost predatory in his green eyes when first he looked at her, despite his warm overtures.  

When Rogir turned to speak with Terciel, Sabriel's gaze moved beyond the royal family to where the kingsguard stood. She was a little surprised to see that Torrigan was looking at her, and even more surprised to find herself holding his gaze. He did not have his father's striking handsomeness, but he was pleasing to the eye, and his face seemed somehow kinder than the true born Lannisters. Abruptly his cheeks darkened, as though he had only just realized she was looking back, and he quickly turned away. 

Turning her attention back to their guests, Sabriel herself felt a brief flash of embarrassment when she saw that Queen Cersei, judging from her arched eyebrow, had most certainly noticed the silent exchange. 

"Sabriel," her father said, touching her arm. "The King and I must have a few words, perhaps you would be so kind as to give Queen Cersei and the princes and princess a tour of the castle?" 

"Of course," Sabriel said, smiling. "Your Grace, your Highnesses, if it please you...?" 

"I think it would please me very much, at least," Rogir said, offering Sabriel his arm. Queen Cersei smiled at that, but the smile did not reach her eyes, leaving Sabriel more than a little hesitant as she took the prince's offered arm. 

*** 

As interested as they at least pretended to be in seeing Winterfell, it was quite clear that the Queen and her children were just as eager to settle into their rooms after three months on the road. And though she would never admit it, Sabriel felt a wash of relief when she finally left them with their guards and was once again alone to tend to her own duties. She headed first to the kitchens to check on the feast preparations, and then began to wonder where her sister had gotten off too; she had not seen Lirael all day.  

 After checking all the usual places (library, practice yard, cellars), Sabriel headed for the weirwood where Winterfell's Charter Stone stood. It was one of the quietest places in all of Winterfell and Lirael was sometimes known to go there to read or simply sit and stare at the still pool of water at the base of the stone. 

But she did not find Lirael there. Instead, Sabriel saw another figure standing before the Charter stone, so still that he might have been made of stone himself. Cautiously Sabriel approached. "Ser Torrigan?" 

The young man started, turning to look at her before ducking his head in a respectful bow. "My lady. Forgive me, I was just..." 

"There is nothing to forgive," Sabriel said, holding up one hand to stop him. "All are welcome here. I can only imagine you are in want of some quiet after travelling, and the guards' rooms must not provide much of that." 

Torrigan glanced up at her and nodded, but remained silent.  

Sabriel clasped her hands in front of her, waiting for him to say something. Instead he continued to stand there. She let out a bemused breath. "You are allowed to speak to me, you know." 

"Yes, my lady," he said. "I'm sorry, it's just that you-" But he stopped himself, though he did meet Sabriel's gaze.  

She looked back at him. Up close she decided he was quite attractive, in a different way entirely than his father or the other Lannisters. His face was strong, but softer, kinder somehow. Instead of green his eyes were pale, a color that would have seemed cold on anyone else. Then Sabriel realized that a good minute or two had passed. Her cheeks flushed and she quickly looked away.  

"I should see to the queen," Torrigan said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "What is the quickest...?" 

"Back through that door," Sabriel said, pointing. "A left down the corridor then up the stairs at the end." 

Torrigan bowed, then turned and hurried off, perhaps just a little too quickly. Sabriel turned to watch him, her eyebrows raised. She was so distracted that she did not hear anyone else approach, and jumped when someone spoke a moment later.  

"What was all that?" 

Turning, Sabriel found Mogget standing beside her, his arms folded over his chest. She scowled. "Excuse me? How long were you..." 

"Long enough to tell that boy has an eye for you," Mogget drawled, giving her one of his slow, knowing smirks.  

"Members of the kingsguard must remain celibate and unwed," Sabriel said.  

Mogget snorted. "If you think that stops them..." 

"I'm done talking about this," Sabriel snapped. "What do you want?" 

"A thousand apologies, mistress," Mogget said, though as usual he didn't sound as though he really meant it. "Your father sent me, he can't seem to locate your little sister." 

Sabriel gave him a look. "Well neither can I. Does Father need something? She's probably off with Dog." 

"Hm, yes, well, he just said that if you do find her, make sure she gets ready for dinner on time..." Mogget bowed a little _too_ deeply. "Mistress. I shall see you later." 

Sabriel rolled her eyes in response. 

*** 

She did not find either her father or her sister all afternoon, though that did not alarm Sabriel too greatly. She had expected that Terciel would be spending most of his time with the king, as the two had been friends in their childhood but had not seen one another in quite some time. She busied herself with overseeing the last of the preparations for that evening, though as the afternoon grew later she once again went to try and find her sister. 

Sabriel was walking down one of the long exterior halls when someone called her name. She stopped and turned, then immediately curtsied when she saw Queen Cersei coming towards her. Far behind the queen two royal guards lingered. 

"Lady Sabriel," Cersei said with a smile. "I hope I am not keeping you from your duties..." 

"Of course not, your grace," Sabriel said. 

"Good." Cersei paused to look her over for a moment, thoughtfully, then reached out, taking a lock of Sabriel's dark hair and letting it slide through her fingers. "My husband was not wrong, you are quite a beauty. But there is a hardness about you I would not expect from someone so young." 

Sabriel was not sure how to respond to that, so she remained silent and perfectly still. 

"That is not a bad thing, my dear," she said. "You will need hardness. Women who lead must be forged like steel." Then she smiled one of those biting smiles of hers. "Do you know what my husband is doing right now?" 

"I have no idea, your Grace," Sabriel said, frowning just a little. 

Cersei leaned in to murmur, "He is asking your father to be his hand, to come south with us to King's Landing. And your father will not refuse, which means you too must leave this...wintery desolation." She reached out again, running the backs of her fingers down Sabriel's cheek, then cupping her jaw lightly. "My son Rogir tells me that he finds you quite lovely and charming." 

"The prince does me a great honor in saying so," Sabriel whispered, but her mouth was dry. Her father, Hand of the King? And her, going to King's Landing? The possibility had never crossed her mind, not even once. She was an Abhorsen, and they belonged in Winterfell, they belonged near the Wall. And she couldn't help but notice that there had been no mention of Lirael. 

The queen's hold on her jaw tightened just a little, then she let go, her smile returning, her touch tender again as she smoothed her hand down Sabriel's hair. "It is such a pity that a girl like you would have to grow up without a mother. You have so much potential, beyond these walls. But never mind the pity, you are all but promised to the prince at this point, which means you are as good as mine." She lightly kissed Sabriel's forehead, her lips just brushing Sabriel's Charter Mark. "My daughter, that is. Now, sweetling, I shan't keep you any longer."  

With a last smile, the queen turned and walked back down the hall, leaving Sabriel to stand there alone, holding her breath, her eyes wide. 

*** 

She finally found her father twenty minutes later, though Sabriel had to run to catch him, and grab his arm to get him to notice her. Terciel turned, a surprised look on his face, though that softened as he turned to face her. "Sabriel, there you are..." 

"Is it true?" Sabriel hissed. "Did the King ask you to be his hand?" 

Terciel's brow furrowed. "Where did you...yes, he did." 

"And?" 

"And...I said yes, how could I not?" Terciel reached out to put his hands on her shoulders. "This was not an unexpected request, Sabriel, even if it was an unwelcome one. I am sorry I did not voice my suspicions sooner, but I did not want to upset you or your sister." 

Tears shone in Sabriel's eyes, but she blinked them back before they could fall. "But you are the Lord Abhorsen, your duties are here, your family is here! The king cannot expect..." 

"The king may expect whatever he likes," Terciel muttered, more than a little begrudgingly. "He expects me to come south with him and be his hand, and I am in no position to refuse." 

"And the queen expects me to come along and marry the prince," Sabriel said. A single, small tear escaped the corner of her eye and she hastily wiped it away. If her father noticed, he gave no indication. She swallowed and tilted her jaw up defiantly. "And what about Lirael?" 

Terciel closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He lifted a hand to his forehead. "I do not know yet, Sabriel. I am sorry. But I do not think she would be welcome at court."  

Sabriel's gaze hardened. She pulled back from his hands.  

"Sabriel," Terciel said, trying to reach for her again. "My darling I am sorry. Someday you will understand, I promise. But we must sometimes do what we would not, in the name of duty and honor." He managed to pull her into an embrace then, as she was losing the battle to keep her tears at bay. Resting his cheek against her hair he murmured their house words, as though they would provide some sort of comfort, though Sabriel never found it to be so: " _Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker?_ " 


	5. Lirael

The feast had been going for hours already, a welcome ceremony fitting for the King's first visit north since his coronation. The air of the Great Hall had grown thick with the smells of smoke and food and drink, heavy with the sound of tens of dozens of voices all clamoring through drunken conversations and the occasional raucous bout of song. Lirael, of course, watched this all from the back of the room, and tried to convince herself that she was happier seated here than up at the front with the Royal family. And her family. Back here there was no one to tell her how much to eat or drink, or that she couldn't have Dog with her. Back here she could listen to the stories of the earthier common folk of Winterfell which, in all honesty, _was_ more interesting.

Still, she would be lying if she said she didn't feel a slight sting at the thought that her presence at the high table would have been considered insulting – at least to the queen.

"I heard one of the guards is a bastard," Lirael muttered to Dog, who was seated under the table at her feet. "The one with the pale eyes. Ser Jaime's son."

Dog looked back up at her. _He is. But he is also the royal family's kin._

"So that makes all the difference, I suppose?" Lirael said, scowling. Most of the residents of Winterfell had grown used to her speaking to her furry companion, but none had any idea that the Dog spoke back. Lirael knew better than to tell them; bad enough that she was a bastard, she didn't need to be thought of mad on top of that.

Dog let out a soft whine then, and Lirael huffed before using her knife to spear part of a roasted chicken that sat on a plate in the middle of the table. Surreptitiously she let it slide to the floor where Dog happily tore into it.

Lirael scowled down at her. "You're going to get fat."

"Who in the gods' names are you talking to?"

Startled, Lirael looked up, then jumped to her feet. "Aunt Kirrith! I was...it's my dog," she finished lamely, pointing at the table. Dog peeked her head out for all of a second before returning to her food.

Kirrith was the elder sister of Lirael's own mother, and one of the Clayr who served at Castle Black. A formidable woman, taller than most men and solidly built, Kirrith had the dark skin and blonde hair that was so distinct to House Clayr. As usual she was dressed in the black garments of the Night's Watch – tonight it was finer than normal, rich black velvet and tall boots, a wide belt with a silver buckle.

"Are you sure that's a dog and not a bear?" Kirrith asked as she moved to pull Lirael into a one-armed embrace. "It is good to see you again, my dear. You've grown quite a bit since last time." They drew apart and Kirrith slid into the empty seat across from Lirael's.

As Lirael sat again her gaze went to the high table at the front of the hall. She saw Sabriel seated between their father and Prince Rogir. On Terciel's other side was King Robert, followed by Queen Cersei and the younger children. Rogir, Lirael saw, was leaning very close to her sister, smiling at her over the rim of his goblet. Seeing Lirael stare, Kirrith turned in her seat to look as well.

"I don't like him," Lirael said lowly. "The older prince."

"Hush child," Kirrith said, turning back to her. "You would be poorly off if that comment fell on the wrong ears." But she followed the repremand with a pointed look that told Lirael she agreed with the sentiment entirely.

Lirael sighed heavily, reaching down to scratch Dog behind the ears.

Kirrith took a cup of wine from a passing server, then looked at her niece once again. "You are upset that you're back here while your family is up there. The Lannisters' doing, I take it?"

"I'm the Lord of Winterfell's bastard," Lirael said dully. "I would be an insult to the royal family."

"You know your father does not share that view," Kirrith said.

Lirael sighed again. "And yet here I am. And soon Father and Sabriel..." Her voice caught a little and she took another drink from her own cup to try and clear her throat. "And soon they'll be going south, leaving me here all by myself because I'm not good for anything and nobody wants me."

"Hah." Kirrith snorted and raised her eyebrows. "That summer wine is going to your head, girl. Do you truly believe your father would leave you behind if you told him how you feel?"

"I did not believe my father would agree to be the hand of the king and leave Winterfell," Lirael said. Then she closed her eyes. "I don't want to go south. I want to do something important, I want people to know that I'm not just a mistake who doesn’t belong anywhere." _Someone who doesn't belong anywhere_. The thought resonated in Lirael's head, then all at once the answer came to her. She slammed her hands on the table.

Kirrith, part way through biting into a roasted onion, almost dropped the food in surprise. "Goodness, what is it?"

"Aunt, I want to join the Night's Watch," Lirael said, meeting Kirrith's gaze and holding it.

"You do not," was Kirrith's immediate reply.

"I do so," Lirael said. "I don't belong anywhere. Where else do people go when they do not belong?"

Slowly, Kirrith put down her knife. "You are an Abhorsen, even if you do not bear the name you are undeniably of the blood. Would you so willingly part from your father and sister?"

"There must always be an Abhorsen in the north," Lirael said gravely.  "Besides, so many Clayr go to the Watch. My mother did."

"Yes, she did," Kirrith agreed, but her expression darkened at the mention of her younger sister. Arielle _had_ gone to the Night's Watch and become a ranger, but ten years ago she had gone out beyond the Wall and never returned. Holding Lirael's gaze she added, "Your father will not allow it."

"I am a woman grown," Lirael said defensively, her fingers clutching at the edge of the table. "Please, Kirrith, perhaps if you said something to Father, told him that you had Seen..."

Kirrith laughed. "Child, your father knows as well as we do that no one, not our strongest seers have Seen anything about you."

That reminder stung Lirael even more than the sharp laugh that accompanied it. Not only did she not inherit the Greensight, she was also unseen – a rare thing for a child of the Clayr. Shaking her head slowly, Lirael pushed away from the table. "Excuse me," she mumbled, getting to her feet and making a soft whistle to Dog, though the pup was already at her side. Elbowing through a group of drunken men, Lirael made her way out of the hall.

***

Outside in the yard the sounds of the feast were muffled. More importantly, the air was fresh, and Lirael took a deep lungful of it the minute the doors closed behind her. Dog stood close at her side, glancing around. Lirael felt her tense, and a second later heard the low rumbling growl that meant they were not alone. Looking around sharply, Lirael saw a small figure sitting atop a wooden barrel by the fence. The figure straightened, and she could see that it was Tyrion Lannister, the one some people called the Imp.

"You're Lord Abhorsen's bastard, aren't you?" He said.

Lirael glared at him, but took a few steps closer. "That's not a very polite way of greeting someone."

"You'll forgive me, my lady," Tyrion said with a wry grin. "I've had some of that lovely wine, perhaps too much, and we dwarves are usually excused from being polite. I'm not wrong, though, am I?"

"No," Lirael said. She wrapped her arms around herself and scuffed one toe in the dirt. "Why aren't you with the others at the high table?"

Tyrion laughed. "Same reason as you. It would insult our lovely queen's sensibilities. She's so proud, my sister. So here I am. And here you are with that...dog?"

"I call her Dog," Lirael said, looking down at the animal. "She's actually a direwolf."

"Shiners." Tyrion breathed. "And look at her. She'll be the size of a horse by the time she's done growing. I've only ever read about direwolves...I must say that's a bit tamer than meeting one face to face."

Lirael shrugged and then walked over to sit atop the fence near him. "She won't hurt you unless I tell her to."

"Then I'll do my best to stay on your good side, my lady."

Lirael couldn't tell if he was teasing her or not. She continued to scowl just to be sure, kicking her feet a little against the fence. It was a cool night, but her clothes were thick and the biting air out here was far better than the cloying air inside. She let out a long sigh. "Prince Rogir is your nephew..." She began.

"So they tell me," Tyrion said with a snort. "The family resemblance stops with our hair color."

"Is he a good man?"

Tyrion cast her a long, sideways look, then took a deep breath and rubbed his hands together. "Cersei wants him to marry your sister," he said, not answering her question.

"I don't think Sabriel wants that," Lirael said.

"That's because the Lady Abhorsen is smart," Tyrion said, cryptically. He hopped off the barrel and looked up at Lirael. "But, unfortunately, because she's smart she will also not refuse. This game is a tricky one, you see. Or you will see."

Lirael sniffed and shook her head. "I'm not coming south. I want nothing to do with King's Landing."

At that Tyrion let out a burst of laughter. "Hah! And I see you too are not lacking in intelligence, Snow. Yes, best steer clear of King's Landing, that is a wise plan. Tell me then, where would you like to be? Here in Winterfell?"

"Not all alone," Lirael said. Her father would be appointing someone to hold his place in Winterfell in his absence, most bets were on the twins Sanar and Ryelle, two of the older members of House Clayr. They were distant cousins of Lirael’s, but she did not know them very much at all. "I want to go to Castle Black, to join the Night's Watch, like my mother and my Aunt Kirrith."

"Ah, your mother was a Clayr, I do recall hearing that," Tyrion said, nodding. "What does your father think of this plan?"

"I haven't told him," Lirael said. "But...my aunt does not think it's a wise idea. She's wrong. I can fight the Dead, I would be good use there."

Tyrion nodded, one eyebrow raised as he looked at her considering. "And what of everything you must give up? You're surely too young to have yet laid with a man, or woman for that matter."

"Nor do I desire to," Lirael replied. "I know what Sabriel says she feels towards men and I just...don't. I don't care if I ever know one or not."

"Pity for the young men of the world," Tyrion said. "But as your house is so fond of pointing out, sometimes you _know_ what your path must be. It does sound to me like you have your heart set on one."

Lirael found herself smiling, just a little. "You think I could be a member of the Watch?"

"I certainly don't have any reason not to," Tyrion said. Then he bowed. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Snow, I must go see a man about a dog...well, a different dog," he added, with a pointed look at Dog. Then he turned and walked back inside.

Dog turned her head to look up at Lirael. _I like him_.

"I do too," Lirael said, sounding surprised even to herself.

 ***

After Tyrion left, Lirael and the Dog went for a short walk, mostly so Lirael could finish clearing her head. She was not a heavy drinker, so even the small amount of wine she had at dinner left her feeling more muddled than she could have wanted. She did not know how late it was when she and Dog finally started heading back, though as they came around the corner of the stables she heard voices – voices she identified as her father and Kirrith almost immediately.

Lirael stopped, out of sight around the corner of the building, wondering what they would be doing out here if the feast was still going on inside. It wasn't until she caught the mention of her own name that she decided it was best she not be seen – and promptly dragged Dog to crouch with her between two of the large haystacks.

"...I had my suspicions, of course," Terciel was saying. He and Kirrith rounded the corner and came to a stop not two yards from where Lirael and Dog were hidden. If she leaned just a little to the right, Lirael could see her father and aunt. Terciel was rubbing his chin. "What have you and your sisters Seen?"

Kirrith had a grim expression on her face. "Danger, my lord. You ride south and you ride into the Lion's mouth."

"Anyone could have told me that," Terciel said. "King's Landing is a bed of snakes in nobles' clothing. I need to know specifics."

"There is no way to avoid it," Kirrith said. "War is coming. Lannisters will never cease their lust for power. A dragon child stirs in the east. Vancelle dreamed of a manticore walking through the snow but Charter knows what that means."

Terciel grunted. "A manticore?"

"Not the small insects that live in Essos," Kirrith said. "The manticores of old."

"I should leave my daughters here," Terciel said. "Keep them safe."

"You refuse the marriage proposal now and you will have only more trouble," Kirrith said. "No, I'm afraid Sabriel must go south with you, it is unavoidable."

Terciel swore softly, then linked both his hands behind his head, turning in a slow circle and looking more helpless than Lirael had ever seen him. "And what of Lirael?"

Kirrith was quiet for a long moment. She waited until Terciel was facing her again and had let his hands fall. "Actually...she herself proposed a solution; let me take her to Castle Black when I return. As loath as I am to admit it, she would make a good sister of the Night's Watch."

"Absolutely not!" Terciel said, so loud that Dog jumped a little. "You speak to me of safety and danger and yet you propose that I send my daughter to the Wall?"

"I know the dangers of the Watch as well as any!" Kirrith said, the tension in her voice rising to match Terciel's. "But your girls are Abhorsens, it is not the Dead they need fear, it is the living! It is the Lannisters who would destroy them and Lirael will be in even graver danger than her sister if you take her south with you. At least the Queen's plots for Sabriel involve keeping her alive."

It was all Lirael could do to keep herself from gasping aloud. She felt as though someone had poured a bucket of ice cold water down her throat, only to have it freeze solid in her stomach. Did Queen Cersei really wish her dead? Or was that speculation on Kirrith's part? And what in all the world was she plotting for Sabriel?

Terciel stepped forward, seeming to loom over Kirrith for a moment, which was no mean feat considering her height. "Woman, I swear by the gods if you do not -"

"I will tell you nothing if you speak to me like _that_ , Lord Abhorsen," Kirrith said coolly. "You summoned me here to advise you, it is not my fault that you do not like what you hear."

"Curse them all," Terciel muttered. He ran his fingers through his hair. "Curse them." Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. For a full two minutes the silence pressed on, broken only by the sound of the wind. Finally, after what felt like eternity, Terciel nodded. "Very well. Lirael will go with you to Castle Black, and Sabriel and I will go south into the hell that our capitol is."

Kirrith nodded, but seemed to know better than to say anything further. Instead she clapped Terciel on the shoulder, then turned and went back to the castle. Terciel remained where he was, watching Kirrith go. Then he turned and looked right in the direciton of the spot where Lirael and Dog were hiding and said wearily, "You can come out, I know you're there."

"Great..." Lirael sighed, but she stood up. Dog bounded over to sit at Terciel's feet, her tongue lolling out. Lirael followed at a slower pace. "I'm sorry, Father I just -" But she stopped, as Terciel held up one hand.

For a moment it looked as though Terciel were considering lecturing her, but he did not. Instead he reached out and smoothed a hand over Lirael's jet black hair, letting his palm linger on her cheek. There was a deep sadness in his dark eyes that simply made Lirael's insides tighten unpleasantly; what else had Kirrith told him? What else had the Clayr seen?"

"A sister of the Night's Watch," Terciel said finally. "Are you sure that is what you want?"

Lirael nodded. "Yes, Father."

"An honorable path, and you are certainly not the first Abhorsen to walk it," Terciel said. He kissed her forehead then, and hugged her tightly. "I have something to give you before we part ways, do not let me forget."

Numbly, Lirael nodded. She clung to her father, taking in the scent of winter that clung to him, a metallic, cold smell. And below that the faint hint of leather and beeswax, though he had not needed to don the bandolier of bells in quite some time. Not since he had taught his daughters to use them, at least.

After some time Terciel drew back, murmuring that they should return to their guests. He wrapped an arm around Lirael's shoulders and, with Dog trailing behind them, steered her back inside.


	6. Terciel

The most difficult part of leaving, Terciel found, was not allowing the thick cloud of guilt to weigh too heavily on his mind. Having to be party to his daughters' tearful goodbye to one another had not helped, and there had been a moment when he briefly considered telling Sabriel to remain in Winterfell. One glance at his king, however, had banished all such thoughts, and so he left his home in the hands of his trusted Clayr friends and started out on the King's Road with his elder daughter.  

A strong slap on the back jarred him out of his dark reveries. Terciel started, then straightened in his saddle, turning to give Robert a nod. "Your Grace. Forgive me, I was lost in thought." 

"I could see that," Robert said. "You look deeply troubled." 

Terciel nodded vaguely. "I left my youngest daughter to one of the most dangerous posts in all the Seven Kingdoms. It is difficult _not_ to be troubled." 

"Nonsense," Robert said, waving his hand dismissively. "It is an honorable post, being part of the Night's Watch. Probably one of the few honorable paths open to a bastard child...unless their father is the queen's brother of course." He finished the last comment with a pointed look at Torrigan, riding up towards the front with his father.

"I hear the lad is a very honorable knight," Terciel said, attempting to hide the wry grin that formed on his face.  

Robert let out a begrudging sigh, as though he wished he could say otherwise, but he nodded. "He is. A skilled fighter, a quiet and polite man, had I not seen him lose his temper I would never believe he had Lannister blood in his veins. Must take after whatever wench our Ser Jaime graced with his affection. Your girl is very much you, however. Who did you say her mother was?" 

"One of the Clayr." 

"Ah. Strange house, that." And that was all Robert had to say on the Clayr. He glanced over his shoulder; behind them some ways back rode Prince Rogir and Sabriel, side by side. Robert shook his head and said confidingly to Terciel, "And _that_ one is all Lannister, let me tell you, though Cersei would say otherwise. Still, he will be a good husband. And gods be good, an honorable king as well someday." 

To that Terciel gave a noncommittal nod. He was not yet sure what to make of the prince; something about Rogir put him off, and he was certain those feelings came from more than simple paternal instinct. Sabriel was more than capable of taking care of herself. He could tell she was on guard as well, though that did little to reassure the niggling thought at the back of his mind that something was very wrong. 

*** 

"Again," Terciel said, and lifted his sword. Sabriel spun towards him wielding her own weapon, but the minute she shifted to a two-handed grasp Terciel barked, " _No_. Stop. Again." 

Sabriel let out a deeply irritated groan. "Father!" 

It was late afternoon and the party had stopped for the day, making camp in a large field that bordered the Kings Road. Though they were both tired from riding all day, Terciel insisted that Sabriel practice her sword work. So far they had been at it for an hour, and she was beginning to lose her patience.  

"Again," he insisted, motioning to her.  

The blade Sabriel held was a simpler version of his own, castle forged rather than Valyrian steel, but the same length. Anyone who used the necromancer's bells – or the Charter spelled ones particular to the Abhorsens – had to be able to weild a sword one-handed. He knew Sabriel was more than capable, she had just been particularly stubborn since they left Winterfell.  

"So this is where you got off to," called a voice from across the field. 

They both turned to see the queen making her way towards them through the grasses, two guards following at a respectful distance. Sabriel immediately replaced her sword to its sheath and bowed, Terciel followed suit. "Your Grace. We were just getting some practice in before the sun sets." 

"I see," Cersei said with a light smile. She picked her way over to Sabriel and took the girl's hands in her own, brushing her thumbs over the calluses on Sabriel's palms, the result of wielding both sword and bells. "Fighter and lady a like," Cersei said. "You balance them well, sweetling. But now is time for the latter – we would have you both join us for dinner tonight."  

"Thank you, your grace," Sabriel said, chancing only the briefest sideways glance at her father. 

Terciel nodded, but his brow furrowed as he watched them. "Will the king be joining us as well?" 

Cersei offered a trite smile. "I am hoping that if you are present, he will." She linked arms with Sabriel then, and the two of them started back off towards the camp, leaving Terciel to follow and the guards to bring up the rear. 

*** 

Robert did join the family for dinner, though he looked very much like he wished he had not. After a few glasses of wine he even suggested quietly and to Terciel alone that they slip away from the royal party and make their own way south. Terciel smiled indulgently but gently reminded the king of their duties, which only did to further sour his mood. 

Prince Rogir, Terciel couldn't help but notice, was being exceptionally charming to Sabriel, speaking almost exclusively to her through the whole meal, holding her hand (when she would allow it) and even touching light kisses to her cheek when he thought no one was looking.  

At one point Sabriel met her father's gaze across the table and gave him a look that told him all he needed to know: she was humoring the prince, and nothing more. It took a great deal of willpower for him not to laugh at the way she rolled her eyes. 

The king took his leave before dessert was done, and Terciel let him be for an hour or so. It was only well after the meal was done that he went to look for his friend. He did find him, though by that time Robert was even further in his cups and still looking as cantankerous as he had been earlier. 

"Sit, man! Have a glass of this," Robert bellowed when Terciel slipped into his tent.  

Terciel inclined his head and sat down across from the king, though he only took a small sip of the summer wine he was given. "Now it would appear to be your turn to look troubled, your grace." 

"Hah." Robert snorted and leaned back, resting his folded hands on his great barrel of a stomach. "That woman troubles me. The brats trouble me. This whole bloody kingdom troubles me, Terciel and now I have yet more troubling news from the east." 

"From the east?" Terciel said, frowning. 

Robert gave him a withering look. "Your cousin. Your _whore_ of a cousin Jaciel is still alive." 

Terciel stared at him, gaping wordlessly for a moment. He had assumed, as everyone else had, that his cousin Jaciel had been killed in the assault on Dragonstone, along with her young daughter. The daughter she had born to Rhaegar Targaryen.  

"She was supposed to be mine," Robert growled. "This whole bloody mess could have been a lot _less_ bloody if she had just done as she was supposed to, instead of running off with my enemy!"  

It was a rant Terciel was not unfamiliar with: before the war broke out, Jaciel had been promised to Robert. He had loved her, for all her "cold fire" as he put it, for her talents in goldsmithing, for her intelligence. But Jaciel had not returned those feelings, and against all conventions and common sense had broken the engagement by running to Rhaegar Targaryen's arms and bed. To add insult to injury, it was a well known fact that she and Rheagar were cousins as well, which just gave Robert more fuel for his fire. 

"Jaciel is in the east," Terciel repeated, wondering what that could imply. 

" _And_ that little whelp of hers," Robert growled. "I have eyes there and they report that Clariel Targaryen was just wed to the son of a wealthy merchant in Qarth." 

Terciel took a long drink of his wine, using the motion to give himself a chance to think. Qarth was far from Westeros, though he didn't think that would calm the king at all. Still... "I do not think she will try anything, Robert. It sounds as though she is attempting to keep her and her daughter far from here..." 

"I don't care!" Robert said, still seething. "I want her dead. I want them both dead before they can cause any further harm! Do not give me that look, Lord Abhorsen, this is not about my pride or scorned love. Jaciel is a kinslayer and a traitor, and Clariel is the dragon's daughter. Both are deadly offences in my book, and I am the king of the seven bloody kingdoms! Or have you forgotten?!" 

"No, your grace," Terciel said stiffly. "I merely urge you to be cautious...This Targaryen girl cannot be older than Sabriel, or your own children, surely - " 

"Dragon's blood is dragon's blood," was the king's only reply. 

Terciel sighed, closing his eyes. There was some truth in that statement; Jaciel had after all inherited the temper that her kin was known for, a temper cooled only slightly by her Abhorsen side. Though Robert had his own fury that was, at times, just as difficult to reason with. Opening his eyes again Terciel leaned forward, "Robert, then allow me one more word of caution, as both your friend and the man you have asked to be your hand; your battles are here, in Westeros, not across the sea. Do not loose sight of what is important." 

"I have lions in my bed and dragons hissing from afar, and now Death itself is nipping at my heels," Robert groused, but he seemed to be calming. He waved one hand aimlessly. "Very well. I will give this thought before I take any action. That is all I can promise." 

"Thank you, Robert," Terciel said. 

Robert grunted, leaning over to refill their cups. "Curse you and your reason." 


	7. Clariel

Clariel looked out over the wide, endless grass planes with interest. The road they followed skirted the very southern edge of the grasslands known as the Dothraki Sea; the goal was to reach Mereen without encountering any of the Dothraki khalasars. From Mereen they would then make the final journey to Qarth around the borders of the Red Wastes. Though few khalasars traveled so far south at this time of year, Clariel noticed that more of Aronzo’s men were armed and armored now, surrounding the main column of his household. 

Aronzo was looking out at the grasslands as well, but in distaste rather than curiosity. “You’d _have_ to be a barbarian to want to live out here,” he muttered. 

“I’ve read about the dothraki,” Clariel said absently. “They strike me as a very resourceful people.” 

“They’re savages,” Aronzo replied. He leaned back in his seat, examining his fingernails with disinterest. “I would say we might hope to meet some so that you may know, but that would not end well.” 

Clariel raised her eyebrow at him. “Why? Because your men would kill them all before I got a chance to speak with one?” 

“Do not mistake caution for arrogance, wife,” Aronzo replied. He seemed to be watching her expression closely. “It would not end well for _us_. They would kill me and the strongest of my men, taking the rest for slaves. You and your lady mother would be given to the riders to take their pleasure with before they either killed you as well or kept you as they saw fit. They have no logic and no mercy." 

"Lovely," Clariel replied. She hesitated just a moment before rising and opening the door of the carriage. When Aronzo grabbed her arm she shot him a dark look. "I wish to ride. The air in here is stifling." And before he could protest she was already dropping to her feet outside and going to take her horse from one of the servants. 

*** 

Riding by herself was one of the only times Clariel felt free. She would have liked a forest, but even now, rushing across the ocean of grass with the wind at her back she could forget about Aronzo, about where she was headed, about the fact that she would never be able to do as she liked again once they reached Qarth. All of it was gone, left behind with the caravan that fell out of sight as she guided her horse down the side of a hill.  

Eventually she came to a clearing and stopped her horse, then dismounted, scuffing her shoes in the dirt for a moment. From one of the saddlebags she removed the large silver egg her mother had given her. Clariel sat cross-legged on the ground, sheltered by the tall grasses, and cradled the egg in her lap. It's surface shone bright silver in the midday sun.  

Spreading her palm against the shell, Clariel marveled at how warm it felt, almost alive though she knew there was no way it could possibly be so. Though, she could have even sworn she even felt a faint tingle run across her skin whenever she touched it. 

Her horse let out a snort and Clariel could now hear another set of hooves approaching. She jumped to her feet, returning the egg to its bag and reaching for her sword, though a second later the grasses parted to reveal Belatiel. He gave her a sheepish grin. "Sorry, my lady, I did not mean to startle you..." 

"You did not, but I would like to be alone," Clariel said. "What do you want?" 

"Your mother requested that I make sure you do not wander too far." Belatiel said. Then he gave her an almost conspiratorial smile. "Would you like to see something interesting?" 

Clariel looked skeptical, but she nodded. Wordlessly Belatiel dismounted and tied both of their steeds to a log lying nearby, then he motioned for Clariel to follow him through the grasses on foot. "Quietly," he whispered.  

Curiosity piqued, Clariel followed. They walked for perhaps too minutes, then turned left, then started crawling up a steep rise. At the top Belatiel lay on his stomach as he peered out through the grass and Clariel followed suit, then gasped.  

The view they had swept out over the Dothraki sea, a wash of gold and tan and a few streaks of dark green. And some ways away they could see what looked like a great moving river of people and horses snaking their way through the grasses.  

"A Khalasar making its way to Vaes Dothrak," Belatiel whispered. "A very large and powerful one, I can't tell which, though, it's too far away, though I know Khal Jaqho recently took a new Khaleesi so it might be them..."  

Clariel couldn't begin to guess how many people were in the khalasar before her. As she watched them she felt a stir of jealousy; life would be hard as part of a nomadic tribe, it was true, but they lived out under the sky, to go where they wished, taking what they wanted. "I should start a khalasar," she said idly. 

Belatiel let out a soft laugh. "You are not dothraki, my lady." 

"Then I wish I'd married one of them instead of stupid Aronzo." 

"You shouldn't speak of your lord husband that way," Belatiel said, ducking his head to hide the little smile. "Besides, I do not think you would appreciate what it would have meant to wed a Khal." He looked at her intently. "You would not have been able to fool him out of bedding you on your wedding night, for one thing." 

Clariel turned to look at him sharply, nostrils flaring. "Excuse me?" 

"Denima likes to gossip with me," he said. "I mean no offense, my lady, I cannot blame you. I would not wish to lie with him either." 

"I don't wish to lie with _anyone_ ," Clariel said hotly, starting back down the way they had come. "Not Aronzo, not Yaneem, no one. Not for all the gold in the world. Not even for - "  

"Not even for the iron throne?" Belatiel said quietly.  

Clariel folded her arms and looked back at him. "Show me the person who will give me the iron throne in exchange for sleeping with them and I'll introduce them to my mother. She's the one who wants it, not I." 

"And what do _you_ want?" Belatiel fell into step with her as they made their way back towards where the horses waited.  

Clariel was quiet for a while, not responding until they stepped back into the clearing. "I want to be free. I want to -" but she stopped, for when she looked up she saw her lord husband standing between the horses, his lips curled into a sneer.  

"You will never be free, Clariel," he said, though his hard, furious gaze was reserved for Bel. "Robert Baratheon wants you dead. I am the only thing that will keep you and your mother safe. Is that clear?...I said _is that clear?!_ " He stepped forward, grabbing Clariel by the arm. 

Clariel grunted, trying to wrench out of his grasp. She could feel a tense fury building up within her. "Let go of me!" She shouted. "How dare you, just because you're..." 

Aronzo slapped her. It did not hurt very much, not compared to some things she had endured, but the shock turned Clariel's fury into a white hot rage. Letting out a snarl she threw herself at Aronzo, only to be knocked to the ground when Belatiel threw himself into her.  

"Clariel," Bel whispered. "Don't do this, it's not worth it! Not yet!" 

She continued to struggle against him for a moment, then went limp, breathing heavily. Belatiel held her down for a moment longer until he could tell she was calm, then he got up, still looking wary. Clariel took several deep breaths then got to her feet, wheeling around to face Aronzo. "I may be your wife on paper," she said lowly. "But you will regret raising a hand to me. Do not presume to do so again. Ever. _Is that clear_?" 

Aronzo stared at her, then he began to laugh. "Dragon fire. Pure dragon fire in your veins. How delightful." Still chuckling, he turned and started back towards the caravan. 

Belatiel touched Clariel's arm, but she shrugged him away. "I will have his heart on a platter if he ever touches me again," she hissed. 

"Fair enough," Bel murmured. "But we should return." 

*** 

 Clariel was not looking forward to returning to life in a city. For as much as Aronzo griped about their long journey across Essos, Clariel loved it; she loved sleeping in tents, and eating beneath the stars, being lulled to sleep by the winds in the grass and the singing of nighttime insects. She was not looking forward to the constant noise and clamor of city life, the smells of so many people living in one place, the confines of solid walls around her.  

One evening when they were at last drawing close to Mereen she sat beside her mother eating dinner by one of the campfires. Jaciel had finished her  food and paused to look at her daughter. "I do not think I've seen you this happy in quite a while. Something tells me it has nothing to do with your marriage." 

"I love it out here," Clariel murmured. "I like the forests more but this is still better than Pentos was. Or Qarth will be." 

"You do not know that," Jaciel said. "You haven't been to Qarth yet. Aronzo's father is more than capable of providing you with whatever you could want." 

Clariel snorted. "Can he give me the dothraki sea? Can he give me the woods of the north? Or the waters around Dragonstone?"  

"Do you know what _I_ wanted above all else?" Jaciel asked matter-of-factly as she ladled more sweetgrass stew into her bowl. "I wanted nothing more than to rule along side the man I loved with all my heart. And yet now your father is dead and the usurper Robert Baratheon grows fat on the iron throne." 

"And now that Father is dead, what do you want?" Clariel asked, watching her mother. Firelight flickered on Jaciel's face, the flames reflecting in her pale eyes. For a moment, she looked very much the dragon queen that she was. 

"I want vengeance," Jaciel whispered. "I want the throne. I want the Seven Kingdoms to bend the knee and beg my forgiveness for what they did. For that I need money, and an army. Both are things Kilp and Qarth can provide. We are not fleeing, daughter. We are biding our time." 

Clariel wanted nothing more than to protest. She wanted to beg her mother to return without an army, to return quietly so they could simply be left alone. But Jaciel had too much fire in her to let the death of Clariel's father go unpunished, or to ignore the theft of the kingdom she knew was rightly hers.  

Sighing, Clariel set her bowl aside and got to her feet. "I am tired, Mother." 

"Good night, Clariel," Jaciel said, making it clear she would be up for a while longer. 

Walking away from the fires, Clariel found Denima and asked her to see if her sleeping roll was still in the carriage. Clariel went to see if it was in the tent she was supposed to be sharing with Aronzo – a lavish affair, purple damask and larger than any two of the other tents combined. Aronzo thought it was luxurious, Clariel thought it was stifling. 

She came up behind the tent without realizing it, then froze, thinking she heard a sound. She tilted her head, listening, then let out a short breath of laughter before crouching down and scooting closer to the tent, attempting to peer through a slight tear in one seam. Sure enough, Aronzo and Yaneem were inside, and the obvious source of the breathy moans and shifting fabrics that Clariel had heard from outside.  

It was all she could do not to laugh again.  

When she turned a moment later Clariel nearly jumped in surprise; Denima had come up behind her without her knowing. The other girl's eyes were wide as she stared at her mistress, having quite clearly heard what was happing in the tent. Clariel gave her a cheerful smile then whispered, "Lets sleep beneath the stars at the other end of camp, shall we? It's so much quieter over there..."  


End file.
